


Heaven and Hell

by oceantears



Series: Five plus one (six for gold) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Case solving, Drug Use, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sadness, Sherlock has feelings, Words, minor off-screen character death, will add tags as I continue writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-04-29 19:34:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14479671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceantears/pseuds/oceantears
Summary: Sherlock doesn't have much except his mind.But he does have his words.Or: Five times Sherlock had a word to hold onto, plus the one time he didn't need one. (He can hold onto John instead.)





	1. Freak

**Author's Note:**

> Written by me.  
> 5+1 thing, title is a line from "Work Song"by Hozier, one of my favourite artists. PREVIOUSLY CALLED "HEAVEN AND HELL WERE WORDS TO ME"
> 
> This will be updated very infrequently (The same applies for "It's all greek to me", I'm so sorry!). I probably shouldn't start another WIP, and I do apologize for infrequent updates in advance.
> 
> As always, English isn't my first language and I'd be grateful if you could tell me where I made mistakes! :) Feedback would be greatly appreciated.

It's one of the very first cases in which Sherlock assists the police. It's an easy one, clearly the husband has murdered his wife because he'd been cheating on her and wanted to get rid of her. Sherlock says as much, after not even ten minutes on the crime scene, and he smiles a bit when he sees the surprised faces of the detectives, wonder all over them.

 

But then he hears what Sally, the impolite woman who Sherlock's disliked from the beginning, whispers to herself, and his smile slides off his face as quickly as it appeared.  
"What a freak.", Sally's voice says, quietly but it's loud enough for him to hear it.  
A few policemen, who also heard the insult, snicker at her words, partly because they found it amusing, partly because they're appalled that a stranger, who isn't even a police officer, has solved the case before them.

 

Sherlock doesn't really care about the amused policemen, he doesn't care about the way Lestrade looks at Sally sharply, or the heartfelt speech he receives from Lestrade for helping them. He gives the man a short nod in response and a another one as an answer to the question if he'd be willing to help with more cases.  
Sherlock doesn't care about the stares that follow him when he leaves the crime scene or the look Sally gives him when he passes her. He doesn't even really care about _Sally_ , but he does care about the word that came out of her mouth.

 

Freak.

 

It's not the first time someone has called Sherlock a freak and it probably won't be the last time, either. But nevertheless, the word stings every time, in a way that makes him wonder why. He has faced many insults and harsh words in his life, but for him, _freak_ has always been the worst one. And he doesn't even know why.

 

On his way home, Sherlock shudders and he pulls his coat closer around his shoulders.  
Freak.  
Freak, Freak, Freak, Freak.

 

It is stuck in his head and refuses to leave. The word hurts him, it hurts him so much for some unknown reason, and this isn't the first time, he has experienced this before, and he knows where it will lead if he can't shake off the insult soon enough.

 

When he climbs up the stairs to his appartment, one step at a time, there's an echo of the word playing in his mind.

 

When he shrugs his coat off and takes his shoes and scarf off, the word seems to drown out every other noise.

 

When he finds the needle and sits down on his unmade bed, the word is at the forefront of his mind and he can't seem to hear anything else except white noise. 

 

Only when he injects the drug, it finally, finally stops. 

 

When Sherlock Holmes wakes up the next day, it's to three missed calls by Lestrade, an aching head and constant screaming in his mind.

_Freak Freak Freak Freak_

 

 

Eventually, he learns to ignore it.  
He has to. 


	2. Friend

It is completely new to Sherlock and it's unsettling.

John is _everywhere_ now, in the kitchen, in the living room, in the bath, next to Sherlock when ~~he's~~ they're solving cases, and most of all, he's in Sherlock's mind.  
And he can't do anything about it.

 

John has just somehow found a way _in_. In Sherlock's mind, in his words, in his heart. Sherlock isn't sure how to respond to that.

 

But it's okay, it's okay, after all John isn't _bad_ , he's just unusual and charming and brave and intelligent and apparently also a goddamn liar.

 

Because Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends, he just doesn't. He's never had any and he's come to terms with the fact that he'll also never have any, and that's okay, he doesn't have any desire to change that.

So, it's a fact that Sherlock doesn't have friends, and therefore, John has just lied in his face.

_"You're my friend, Sherlock, you know that?"_

 

They're in the kitchen, John sitting at the table, solving a crossword-puzzle that's far too easy, Sherlock standing at the microwave, trying to wrap his head around the fact that John has just lied in his face. It's not something he would've expected of the other man, and it's rather shocking if not even. . . unsettling.

It leaves a bitter taste in Sherlock's mouth as he turns to face the blond.  
"Excuse me?"

 

John's smiling face shows the barest hint of confusion, eyebrows drawn together, mouth sagging a bit. "I said that you were my friend, Sherlock.", he repeats, shifting his weight on the stool a bit, hand holding his cane only a bit tighter.  
He's confused by Sherlock's confusion, the surprise in his stare, the nearly defensive posture the other has adapted. 

Sherlock nods in response to John's words. Once, twice.

The clock ticks. 

Tick.

Sherlock turns forcefully, pushing the "off" button on the microwave, ending a project he can't remember starting. It's terrifying what words can do to him, the power they have over him.  
"Right". He nods, back still turned to John, who's watching him with confusion and a bit of concern.

Tick.

Sherlock turns, meeting John's eyes, his thoughts running wild, because he still cannot wrap his head around the lie the other has just told, twice. Why did he lie?

Sherlock doesn't have friends and that's fine by him, even good sometimes, because they could be a hindrance, a weak spot for him, because caring weakens him, emotion can destroy the clear logic of rational thought and that's not something Sherlock can allow.

 

Friend.

He doesn't have friends and John Watson has no right to claim otherwise.

 

"I'll take a shower.", he says, looking straight at John who's still looking confused and vaguely concerned.  
Sherlock doesn't wait for the nod of approval and heads for the bathroom, his mind turning this one, simple word this way and that way, over and over again. 

Friend.

It's a lie, it has to be.  
Emotions are a weakness. 

 

He turns the water on in the bathtub, freezing cold and rids himself of his clothes mechanically.

 

He doesn't want the words to be a lie.

Friend.

 

He sinks in the water and closes his eyes.

Friend, he repeats, friend.


	3. Genius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really happy with this but I hope you can enjoy it! :)

Sherlock woke up to a shout by John Watson and the sound of his rapid breathing.  
A nightmare again.

 

The Consulting Detective closed his eyes, his head, which had shot up at the shout, relaxed into the cushion in the couch once again and he took a deep breath.  
In the last few days, John's nightmares had become more frequent and the blonde woke up due to them almost every night, screaming or trashing around in his bed.

 

And Sherlock had no clue what to do about it.

 

He knew that he shouldn't wake John, his flatmate - _friend_ whispered a treacherous voice in his head - had said so himself. The problem was that he didn't know what else to do. He didn't know how to help John, didn't know how to make it better.  
And if Sherlock hated anything in this world, it was _not knowing._

 

Most people held the opinion that he was a genius, that he had a solution for every problem. And that was true, for the most part, but even Sherlock Holmes had moments of helplessness, moments in which he did not know how to deal with a situation.  
Moments of being utterly human.  
This was one of those moments.

 

Upstairs, the bed creaked as John threw himself onto his other side. Sherlock could hear a few mumbled words, it sounded as if John was in distress but still sleeping.

 

He took a deep breath.

 

This, up there, was a man he trusted more than anyone else in the world, a man who had called himself Sherlock's friend multiple times, and it hurt to not be able to help him. Because he didn't know _how._

 

And people dared to say he was a genius.

 

With a frustrated huff Sherlock left the couch and made his way to the kitchen. As he looked for a cup in order to make some tea, the world _genius_ floated in his head, over and over again, almost as if it were mocking him. If such a thing was even possible, being mocked by a _word._

 

It didnt do him justice, really.

He was so much more that a simple genius, he was one, yes, but he was also more that just intelligent, clever. He was observant, seemingly cold-hearted but full of feelings. He was a freak, according to some people, and a friend, according to one person.

 

His intelligence wasn't the only thing that made him Sherlock but right now he wished it were.

 

If all he was were a genius, it would be easy to help his friend, who was caught in a nightmare upstairs. It would be easy to take action, he'd know what to do.  
He wouldn't stand here in the kitchen, a cup of tea in his hand, helpless.  
He could help.

 

Sherlock stood up, moved to the sink, deposed his mug there and flinched. John had screamed out, a pained, fearful sound and the heavy, rapid breathing mixed with quiet sobs that followed, told Sherlock that he had woken up. Finally.  
The man let out a quiet sigh of relief and his shoulders sagged. 

 

It was always better when John woke up instead of hurting for the night, caught up in nightmares, unable to free himself of them, trashing around and screaming. It was better, because at least now, Sherlock knew what to do.  
This, right here, was the part he could handle, he knew what to do now. It didn't need a genius to figure it out.

 

Sherlock made his way to his violin, lying in the windowsill. He picked it up, stroking it softly, nearly caressing it. It was valuable, not only was it expensive but also important to Sherlock. And John, in a way.  
He turned his back to the kitchen, looking out of the window, down on the dark, quiet streets and started playing.  
It wasn't a loud piece, wasn't played at a fast pace, but a beautiful, calming melody. Sherlock had composed it himself, weeks ago when John had woken up from a nightmare and just hadn't stopped crying upstairs in his room.

 

Sherlock had picked up his violin then and had started playing, for he did not know what else to do. And after a while of playing, after the minutes had ticked by, one passing slower than the one before, John had stopped sobbing and the creaking of the bed had told Sherlock that he had fallen asleep again.  
Still, he hadn't stopped playing until well into the early hours of the morning, when the sun had started to rise. He hadn't dared to, hadn't wanted to risk John waking up again.

 

And now he stood at the window again, playing the well-known tune and listening to John. He was calmer now, for his breathing was more even and as the bed creaked, Sherlock knew that he had succeeded, that John would now go back to sleep again. 

 

Sherlock sighed. He wished he could do more for the man upstairs he had come to like, had let in a way he had never let anyone else in.  
He wishes he really were a genius, a machine, unfeeling, just thinking, processing, deducing, instead of human.

 

He wishes he were a better friend.  
But he wasn't.


	4. Sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I`m really sorry this chapter took me so long! I am not really happy with it, but I hope it will do suffice and you`ll enjoy it. Comments (and tips on how to improve this ^^) as well as kudos are greatly appreciated!  
> And, to you all: I hope you have an amazing 2019!!

The wind is cold and Sherlock shivers even though he’s wearing his coat. He cannot hear much besides the ceaseless wind and the rush of blood in his ears. He can, however, hear John Watson’s voice, screaming at him, begging him to stop, to stay where he is.

Sherlock tries to ignore him. He knows if he gives in now, gives in to the urge to signal John somehow that this isn’t real, _that he will not die_ , then everything will have been futile. If he gives in to the voice whispering in the back of his mind, Moriarty will have won. 

He knows it; he knows all of that but it still is so, so hard for him to jump. It is hard to jump because of John Watson. It is hard because he has found a friend – his first one – in the other man, someone he can trust, someone that accepts him. It is hard because he knows he will lose John, even if just for a while.

It is hard because Sherlock has never had to say sorry before.

Oh, of course there have been many times when he should’ve apologised, often for a multitude of things, but the thing is that he only rarely ever _does._

It is not because he is cruel, insensitive or enjoys hurting others. It is because it is difficult for him. For Sherlock it had always been hard to say “sorry”, for it meant that he knew he`d done something wrong and by apologizing, he admitted to it, displayed a weakness. And if there was one thing he hated, it was showing his weaknesses, his flaws. Those were what made him vulnerable; admitting to having weak spots would lead to others targeting them, hurting him.

 

To Sherlock, “sorry” was a word best avoided and most of the time, he was able to do so.  
But not now, not now, not now.

 

A new gust of wind hits Sherlock and he clenches his teeth to stop the tears that threaten to fall from doing so. The wind carries Johns` voice with it and so does the phone which Sherlock clutches hard in his hand. 

“Leave a note when?”

John`s voice is breathless and shakes just a little and the one word Sherlock tries his best to avoid lies on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out of his mouth. He swallows hard and steels himself.  
“Goodbye, John.”

That’s all he says, _goodbye_ , nothing more. Not _forgive me_ , not _it isn’t real_ , not _I will come back_.  
Not _sorry._ Never sorry.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, lets go of the phone. Takes one last look at John Watson, his best friend, the man standing on the street, who`s screaming at him to stop. 

And then he jumps. 

The wind is cold, even though Sherlock is wearing a coat. He doesn’t scream as he falls, he doesn’t cry out. 

He does however, whisper a single, small word. 

And in this moment, the word isn’t admitting weakness. It is simply showing that he cares. 

_Sorry._


End file.
